A Spirit in Prison by Robert Hichens

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12 NOVELS + 16 SHORT STORIES. THE GREEN CARNATION , FLAMES, THE PROPHET OF BERKELEY SQUARE, THE GARDEN OF ALLAH, CALL OF THE BLOOD, A SPIRIT IN PRISON ... (Timeless Wisdom Collection Book 4130)

Spirit in Prison, A

Spirit in Prison, A

A Spirit in Prison

A Spirit in Prison [ 1908 ]

[ A Spirit in Prison [ A SPIRIT IN PRISON ] By Hichens, Robert ( Author )Sep-01-2007 Paperback

**REPRINT** Hichens, Robert Smythe, 1864-1950. A spirit in prison, by Robert Hichens ... illustrated by Cyrus Cuneo. New York and London, Harper & brothers, 1908.**REPRINT**

"Poor woman! Because of all this trouble. Her husband is in prison."

"Lo so. But he will soon be out again. He is 'protected.' "

"Who protects him?"

But Gaspare evaded the answer, and substituted something that wasalmost a rebuke.

"Signora," he said, bluntly, if I were you I would not have anythingto do with these people. Ruffo's Patrigno is a bad man. Better leavethem alone."

"But, Ruffo?"

"Signora?"

"You like him, don't you?"

"Si, Signora. There is no harm in him."

"And the poor mother?"

"I am not friends with his mother, Signora. I do not want to be."

Hermione was surprised by his harshness.

"But why not?"

"There are people at Mergellina who are bad people," he said. "We arenot Neapolitan. We had better keep to ourselves. You have too muchheart, Signora, a great deal too much heart, and you do not alwaysknow what people are."

"Do you think I ought not to have given Ruffo that money for hismother?" Hermione asked, almost meekly.

"Si, Signora. It is not for you to give his mother money. It is notfor you."

"Well, Gaspare, it's done now."

"Si, it's done now."

"You don't think Ruffo bad, do you?"

After a pause, Gaspare answered:

"No, Signora. Ruffo is not bad."

Hermione hesitated. She wanted to ask Gaspare something, but she wasnot sure that the opportunity was a good one. He was odd to-night. Histemper had surely been upset. Perhaps it would be better to wait. Shedecided not to speak of what was in her mind.

"Well, Gaspare, good-night," she said.

"Good-night, Signora."

She smiled at him.

"You see, after all, you have had to say good-night to me!"

"Signora," he answered, earnestly, "even if I do not come to say good-night to you always, I shall stay with you till death."

Again he made the little noise with his nose, as he turned away andwent out of the room.

That night, as she got into bed, Hermione called down on that faithfulwatch-dog's dark head a blessing, the best that heaven contained forhim. Then she put out the light, and lay awake so long that when aboat came round the cliff from the Saint's Pool to the open sea, inthe hour before the dawn, she heard the soft splash of the oars in thewater and the sound of a boy's voice singing.

She lifted herself up on her pillow and listened--listened untilacross the sea, going towards the dawn, the song was lost.

"Gli occhi di Rosa e il mar di Mergellina."

When the voice was near, had not Maurice seemed near to her? And whenit died away, did not he fade with it--fade until the Ionian waterstook him?

She sat up in the darkness until long after the song was hushed. Butshe heard it still in the whisper of the sea.

CHAPTER XXI

The Marchesino had really been unwell, as he had told Hermione. ThePanacci disposition, of which he had once spoken to Artois, wascertainly not a calm one, and Isidoro, was, perhaps, the mostexcitable member of an abundantly excitable family. Althoughchangeable, he was vehement. He knew not the meaning of the wordpatience, and had always been accustomed to get what he wanted exactlywhen he wanted it. Delay in the gratification of his desires,opposition to his demands, rendered him as indignant as if he were aspoiled child unable to understand the fixed position and function ofthe moon. And since the night of his vain singing along the shore tothe Nisida he had been ill with fever, brought on by jealousy anddisappointment, brought on partly also by the busy workings of aheated imagination which painted his friend Emilio in colors of inkyblack.

The Marchesino had not the faintest doubt that Artois was in love withVere. He believed this not from any evidence of his eyes, for, evennow, in not very lucid moments, he could not recall any occasion onwhich he had seen Emilio paying court to the pretty English girl. But,then, he had only seen them together twice--on the night of his firstvisit to the island and on the night of the storm. It was the generalconduct of his friend that convinced him, conduct in connection notwith Vere, but with himself--apart from that one occasion when Emiliomust have lain hidden with Vere among the shadows of the grotto ofVirgil. He had been deceived by Emilio. He had thought of him as anintellectual, who was also a bon vivant and interested in Neapolitanlife. But he had not thought of him as a libertine. Yet that was whathe certainly was. The interview with Maria Fortunata in the alleybeyond the Via Roma had quite convinced the Marchesino. He had noobjection whatever to loose conduct, but he had a contempt forhypocrisy which was strong and genuine. He had trusted Emilio. Now hedistrusted him, and was ready to see subtlety, deceit, and guile inall his undertakings.

Emilio had been trying to play with him. Emilio looked upon him as aboy who knew nothing of the world. The difference in their respectiveages, so long ignored by him, now glared perpetually upon theMarchesino, even roused within him a certain condemnatory somethingthat was almost akin to moral sense, a rare enough bird in Naples. Hesaid to himself that Emilio was a wicked old man, "un vecchiobriccone." The delights of sin were the prerogative of youth. Abruptlythis illuminating fact swam, like a new comet, within the ken of theMarchesino. He towered towards the heights of virtuous indignation. Ashe lay upon his fevered pillow, drinking a tisane prepared by hisanxious mamma, he understood the inner beauty of settling down--forthe old, and white-haired age, still intent upon having its fling,appeared to him so truly pitiable and disgusting that he could almosthave wept for Emilio had he not feared to make himself more feverishby such an act of enlightened friendship.

And the sense and appreciation of the true morality, ravishing in itsutter novelty for the young barbarian, was cherished by the Marchesinountil he began almost to swell with virtue, and to start on stilts toheaven, big with the message that wickedness was for the young andmust not be meddled with by any one over thirty--the age at which,till now, he had always proposed to himself to marry some rich girland settle down to the rigid asceticism of Neapolitan wedded life.

And as the Marchesino had lain in bed tingling with morality, so didhe get up and issue forth to the world, and even set sail upon thefollowing day for the island. Morality was thick upon him, as uponthat "briccone" Emilio, something else was thick. About mediaevalchivalry he knew precisely nothing. Yet, as the white wings of hispretty yacht caught the light breeze of morning, he felt like a mostvirtuous knight /sans peur et sans reproche/. He even felt like asteady-going person with a mission.

But he wished he thoroughly understood the English nation. Towards theEnglish he felt friendly, as do most Italians; but he knew little ofthem, except that they were very rich, lived in a perpetual fog, andwere "un poco pazzi." But the question was how mad--in other words,how different from Neapolitans--they were! He wished he knew. It wouldmake things easier for him in his campaign against Emilio.

Till he met the ladies of the island he had never said a hundred wordsto any English person. The Neapolitan aristocracy is a veryconservative body, and by no means disposed to cosmopolitanism. To thePanacci Villa at Capodimonte came only Italians, except Emilio. TheMarchesino had inquired of Emilio if his mother should call upon theSignora Delarey, but Artois, knowing Hermione's hatred of socialformalities, had hastened to say that it was not necessary, that itwould even be a surprising departure from the English fashion of life,which ordained some knowledge of each other by the ladies of twofamilies, or at least some formal introduction by a mutual womanfriend, before an acquaintance could be properly cemented. Hithertothe Marchesino had felt quite at ease with his new friends. Buthitherto he had been, as it were, merely at play with them. Theinterlude of fever had changed his views and enlarged hisconsciousness. And Emilio was no longer at hand to be explanatory ifdesired.

The Marchesino wished very much that he thoroughly understood theinner workings of the minds of English ladies.

How mad were the English? How mad exactly, for instance, was theSignora Delarey? And how mad exactly was the Signorina? It would bevery valuable to know. He realized that his accurate knowledge ofNeapolitan women, hitherto considered by him as amply sufficient toconduct him without a false step through all the intricacies of theworld feminine, might not serve him perfectly with the ladies of theisland. His fever had, it seemed, struck a little blow on his self-confidence, and rendered him so feeble as to be almost thoughtful.

And then, what exactly did he want? To discomfit Emilio utterly? That,of course, did not need saying, even to himself. And afterwards? Therewere two perpendicular lines above his eyebrows as the boat drew nearto the island.

But when he came into the little drawing-room, where Hermione waswaiting to receive him, he looked young and debonair, though stillpale from his recent touch of illness.

Vere was secretly irritated by his coming. Her interview with Peppinahad opened her eyes to many things, among others to a good deal thatwas latent in the Marchesino. She could never again meet him, or anyman of his type, with the complete and masterful simplicity ofignorant childhood that can innocently coquet by instinct, that canmanage by heredity from Eve, but that does not understand thoroughly,either, what it is doing or why it is doing it.

Vere was not in the mood for the Marchesino.

She had been working, and she had been dreaming, and she wanted tohave another talk with Monsieur Emile. Pretty, delicate, yet strong-fibred ambitions were stirring within her, and the curious passion touse life as a material, but not all of life that presented itself toher. With the desire to use that might be greedy arose the fastidiousprerogative of rejection.

And that very morning, mentally, Vere had rejected the Marchesino assomething not interesting in life, something that was only lively,like the very shallow stream. What a bore it would be having toentertain him, to listen to his compliments, to avoid his glances, topretend to be at ease with him.

"But Madre can have him for a little first," she said to herself, asshe looked into the glass to see that her hair was presentable. "Madreasked him to come. I didn't. I shall have nothing to say to him."

She had quite forgotten her eagerness on the night of the storm, whenshe heard the cry of the siren that betokened his approach. Again shelooked in the glass and gave a pat to her hair. And just as she wasdoing it she thought of that day after the bathe, when Gaspare hadcome to tell her that Monsieur Emile was waiting for her. She had rundown, then, just as she was, and now--

"Mamma mia! Am I getting vain!" she said to herself.

And she turned from the glass, and reluctantly went to meet theirguest.

She had said to herself that it was a bore having the Marchesino tolunch, that he was uninteresting, frivolous, empty-headed. Butdirectly she set eyes upon him, as he stood in the drawing-room by hermother, she felt a change in him. What had happened to him? She couldnot tell. But she was conscious that he seemed much more definite,much more of a personage, than he had seemed to her before. Even hisface looked different, though paler, stronger. She was aware ofsurprise.

The Marchesino, too, though much less instinctively observant thanVere, noted a change in her. She looked more developed, more grown up.And he said to himself:

"When I told Emile she was a woman I was right."

Their meeting was rather grave and formal, even a little stiff. TheMarchesino paid Vere two or three compliments, and she inquiredperfunctorily after his health, and expressed regret for his slightillness.

"It was only a chill, Signorina. It was nothing."

"Perhaps you caught it that night," Vere said.

"What night, Signorina?"

Vere had been thinking of the night when he sang for her in vain.Suddenly remembering how she and Monsieur Emile had lain in hiding andslipped surreptitiously home under cover of the darkness, she flushedand said:

"The night of the storm--you got wet, didn't you?"

"But that was long ago, Signorina," he answered, looking steadily ather, with an expression that was searching and almost hard.

Had he guessed her inadvertence? She feared so, and felt ratherguilty, and glad when Giulia came in to announce that lunch was ready.

Hermione, when they sat down, feeling a certain constraint, but notknowing what it sprang from, came to the rescue with an effort. Shewas really disinclined for talk, and was perpetually remembering thatthe presence of the Marchesino had prevented Emile from coming tospend a long day. But she remembered also her guest's hospitality atFrisio's, and her social instinct defied her natural reluctance to belively. She said to herself that she was rapidly developing into afogey, and must rigorously combat the grievous tendency. By a sheerexertion of will-power she drove herself into a different, andconversational, mood. The Marchesino politely responded. He wasperfectly self-possessed, but he was not light-hearted. The unusualeffort of being thoughtful had, perhaps, distressed or even outragedhis brain. And the worst of it was that he was still thinking--for himquite profoundly.

However, they talked about risotto, they talked about Vesuvius, theyspoke of the delights of summer in the South and of the advantages ofliving on an island.

"Does it not bore you, Signora, having the sea all round?" asked theMarchesino. "Do you not feel in a prison and that you cannot escape?"

"I am very fond of the island, certainly," said Hermione. "Still, ofcourse, we are rather isolated here."

She was thinking of what she had said to Artois--that perhaps herinstinct to shut out the world was morbid, was bad for Vere. The girlat once caught the sound of hesitation in her mother's voice.

"Madre!" she exclaimed. "You don't mean to say that you are tired ofour island life?"

"I do not say that. And you, Vere?"

"I love being here. I dread the thought of the autumn."

"In what month do you go away, Signora?" asked the Marchesino.

"By the end of October we shall have made our flitting, I suppose."

"You will come in to Naples for the winter?"

Hermione hesitated. Then she said:

"I almost think I shall take my daughter to Rome. What do you say,Vere?"

The girls face had become grave, even almost troubled.

"I can't look forward in this weather," she said. "I think it's almostwicked to. Oh, let us live in the moment, Madre, and pretend it willbe always summer, and that we shall always be living in our Casa delMare!"

There was a sound of eager youth in her voice as she spoke, and hereyes suddenly shone. The Marchesino looked at her with an admirationhe did not try to conceal.

"You love the sea, Signorina?" he asked.

But Vere's enthusiasm abruptly vanished, as if she feared that hemight destroy its completeness by trying to share it.

It was the first time the name of Artois had been mentioned among themthat day. The Marchesino's full red lips tightened over his largewhite teeth.

"I have not seen Signor Emilio for some days," he said.

"Nor have we," said Vere, with a touch of childish discontent.

He looked at her closely.

Emilio--he knew all about Emilio. But the Signorina? What were herfeelings towards the "vecchio briccone"? He did not understand thesituation, because he did not understand precisely the nature ofmadness of the English. Had the ladies been Neapolitans, Emilio anItalian, he would have felt on sure ground. But in England, so he hadheard, there is a fantastic, cold, sexless something called friendshipthat can exist between unrelated man and woman.

"Don Emilio writes much," he said, with less than his usual alacrity."When one goes to see him he has always a pen in his hand."

He tried to speak of Emilio with complete detachment, but could notresist adding:

"When one is an old man one likes to sit, one cannot be foreverrunning to and fro. One gets tired, I suppose."

There was marked satire in the accent with which he said the lastwords. And the shrug of his shoulders was an almost audible "What canI know of that?"

"Monsieur Emile writes because he has a great brain, not because hehas a tired body," said Vere, with sudden warmth.

Her mother was looking at her earnestly.

"Oh, Signorina, I do not mean-- But for a man to be always shut up,"began the Marchesino, "it is not life."

"You don't understand, Marchese. One can live in a little room withthe door shut as one can never live--"

Abruptly she stopped. A flush ran over her face and down to her neck.Hermione turned away her eyes. But they had read Vere's secret. Sheknew what her child was doing in those hours of seclusion. And sheremembered her own passionate attempts to stave off despair by work.She remembered her own failure.

"Poor little Vere!" That was her first thought. "But what is Emiledoing?" That was the second. He had discouraged her. He had told herthe truth. What was he telling Vere? A flood of bitter curiosityseemed to rise in her, drowning many things.

"What I like is life, Signorina," said the Marchesino. "Driving,riding, swimming, sport, fencing, being with beautiful ladies--that islife."

"Yes, of course, that is life," she said.

What was the good of trying to explain to him the inner life? He hadno imagination.

Her youth made her very drastic, very sweeping, in her secret mentalassertions.

She labelled the Marchesino "Philistine," and popped him into hisdrawer.

Lunch was over, and they got up.

"Are you afraid of the heat out-of-doors, Marchese?" Hermione asked,"or shall we have coffee in the garden? There is a trellis, and weshall be out of the sun."

"Signora, I am delighted to go out."

He got his straw hat, and they went into the tiny garden and sat downon basket-work chairs under a trellis, set in the shadow of some fig-trees. Giulia brought them coffee, and the Marchesino lighted acigarette.

He said to himself that he had never been in love before.

Vere wore a white dress. She had no hat on, but held rather carelesslyover her small, dark head a red parasol. It was evident that she wasnot afraid even of the midday sun. That new look in her face, softwomanhood at the windows gazing at a world more fully, if more sadly,understood, fascinated him, sent the blood up to his head. There was agreat change in her. To-day she knew what before she had not known.

As he stared at Vere with adoring eyes suddenly there came into hismind the question: "Who has taught her?"

And then he thought of the night when all in vain he had sung upon thesea, while the Signorina and "un Signore" were hidden somewhere nearhim.

The blood sang in his head, and something seemed to expand in hisbrain, to press violently against his temples, as if striving to forceits way out. He put down his coffee cup, and the two perpendicularlines appeared above his eyebrows, giving him an odd look, cruel andrather catlike.

"If Emilio--"

At that moment he longed to put a knife into his friend.

But he was not sure. He only suspected.

Hermione's role in this summer existence puzzled him exceedingly. Thenatural supposition in a Neapolitan would, of course, have been thatArtois was her lover. But when the Marchesino looked at Hermione'seyes he could not tell.

What did it all mean? He felt furious at being puzzled, as if he weredeliberately duped.

She went off before he could say another word, and the Marchesino wasalone for a moment with Hermione.

"You are fortunate, Signora, in having such a daughter," he said, witha sigh that was boyish.

"Yes," Hermione said.

That bitter curiosity was still with her, and her voice soundedlistless, almost cold. The Marchesino looked up. Ah! Was theresomething here that he could understand? Something really feminine? Acreeping jealousy? He was on the /qui vive/ at once.

"And such a good friend as Don Emilio," he added. "You have knownEmilio for a long time, Signora?"

"Oh yes, for a very long time."

"He is a strange man," said the Marchesino, with rather elaboratecarelessness.

"Do you think so? In what way?"

"He likes to know, but he does not like to be known."

There was a great deal of truth in the remark. Its acuteness surprisedHermione, who thought the Marchesino quick witted but verysuperficial.

"As he is a writer, I suppose he has to study people a good deal," shesaid, quietly.

"I do not think I can understand these great people. I think they aretoo grand for me."

"Oh, but Emile likes you very much. He told me so."

"It is very good of him," said the Marchesino, pulling at hismustaches.

He was longing to warn Hermione against Emilio--to hint that Emiliowas not to be trusted. He believed that Hermione must be very blind,very unfitted to look after a lovely daughter. But when he glanced ather face he did not quite know how to hint what was in his mind. Andjust then Vere came back and the opportunity was gone. She held out abox to the Marchesino. As he thanked her and took a cigarette he triedto look into her eyes. But she would not let him. And when he struckhis match she returned once more to the house, carrying the box withher. Her movement was so swift and unexpected that Hermione had nottime to speak before she was gone.

"But--"

"I should not smoke another, Signora," said the Marchesino, quickly.

"You are sure?"

"Quite."

"Still, Vere might have left the box. She is inhospitable to-day."

Hermione spoke lightly.

"Oh, it is bad for cigarettes to lie in the sun. It ruins them."

"But you should have filled your case. You must do so before you go."

"Thank you."

His head was buzzing again. The touch of fever had really weakenedhim. He knew it now. Never gifted with much self-control, he feltto-day that, with a very slight incentive, he might lose his head. Thenew atmosphere which Vere diffused around her excited him strangely.He was certain that she was able to understand something of what hewas feeling, that on the night of the storm she would not have beenable to understand. Again he thought of Emilio, and moved restlesslyin his chair, looking sideways at Hermione, then dropping his eyes.Vere did not come back.

Hermione exerted herself to talk, but the task became really adifficult one, for the Marchesino looked perpetually towards thehouse, and so far forgot himself as to show scarcely even a waveringinterest in anything his hostess said. As the minutes ran by a hotsensation of anger began to overcome him. A spot of red appeared oneach cheek.

Suddenly he got up.

"Signora, you will want to make the siesta. I must not keep youlonger."

"No, really; I love sitting out in the garden, and you will find theglare of the sun intolerable if you go so early."

"On the sea there is always a breeze. Indeed, I must not detain you.All our ladies sleep after the colazione until the bathing hour. Donot you?"

"Yes, we lie down. But to-day--"

"You must not break the habit. It is a necessity. My boat will beready, and I must thank you for a delightful entertainment."

His round eyes were fierce, but he commanded his voice.

"A rive--"

"I will come with you to the house if you really will not stay alittle longer."

"Perhaps I may come again?" he said, quickly, with a sudden hardness,a fighting sound in his voice. "One evening in the cool. Or do I boreyou?"

"No; do come."

Hermione felt rather guilty, as if they had been inhospitable, she andVere; though, indeed, only Vere was in fault.

"Come and dine one night, and I shall ask Don Emilio."

As she spoke she looked steadily at her guest.

"He was good enough to introduce us to each other, wasn't he?" sheadded. "We must all have an evening together, as we did at Frisio's."

The Marchesino bowed.

"With pleasure, Signora."

They came into the house.

As they did so Peppina came down the stairs. When she saw them shemurmured a respectful salutation and passed quickly by, averting herwounded cheek. Almost immediately behind her was Vere. The Marchesinolooked openly amazed for a moment, then even confused. He stared firstat Hermione, then at Vere.

"I am sorry, Madre; I was kept for a moment," the girl said. "Are youcoming up-stairs?"

"The Marchese says he must go, Vere. He is determined not to depriveus of our siesta."

"One needs to sleep at this hour in the hot weather," said theMarchesino.

The expression of wonder and confusion was still upon his face, and hespoke slowly.

"Good-bye, Marchese," Vere said, holding out her hand.

He took it and bowed over it and let it go. The girl turned and ranlightly up-stairs.

Directly she was gone the Marchesino said to Hermione:

"Pardon me, Signora, I--I--"

He hesitated. His self-possession seemed to have deserted him for themoment. He looked at Hermione swiftly, searchingly, then dropped hiseyes.

"What is it, Marchese?" she asked, wondering what was the matter withhim.

He still hesitated. Evidently he was much disturbed. At last he saidagain:

"Pardon me, Signora. I--as you know, I am Neapolitan. I have alwayslived in Naples."

"Yes, I know."

"I know Naples like my pocket--"

He broke off.

Hermione waited for him to go on. She had no idea what was coming.

"Yes?" she said, at length to help him.

"Excuse me, Signora! But that girl--that girl who passed by justnow--"

"My servant, Peppina."

He stared at her.

"Your servant, Signora?"

"Yes."

"Do you know what she is, where she comes from? But no, it isimpossible."

"I know all about Peppina, Marchese," Hermione replied, quietly.

"Truly? Ah!"

His large round eyes were still fixedly staring at her.

"Good-bye, Signora!" he said. "Thank you for a very charmingcolazione. And I shall look forward with all my heart to the eveningyou have kindly suggested."

"I shall write directly I have arranged with Don Emilio."

"Thank you! Thank you! A rivederci, Signora."

He cast upon her one more gravely staring look, and was gone.

When he was outside and alone, he threw up his hands and talked tohimself for a moment, uttering many exclamations. In truth, he wasutterly amazed. Maria Fortunata had spread abroad diligently the fameof her niece's beauty, and the Marchesino, like the rest of the gayyoung men of Naples, had known of and had misjudged her. He had readin the papers of the violence done to her, and had at once dismissedher from his mind with a muttered "Povera Ragazza!"

She was no longer beautiful.

And now he discovered her living as a servant with the ladies of theisland. Who could have put her there? He thought of Emilio's colloquywith Maria Fortunata. But the Signora? A mother? What did it all mean?Even the madness of the English could scarcely be so pronounced as tomake such a proceeding as this quite a commonplace manifestation ofthe national life and eccentricity. He could not believe that.

He stepped into his boat. As the sailors rowed it out from the Pool--the wind had gone down and the sails were useless--he looked earnestlyup to the windows of the Casa del Mare, longing to pierce its secrets.

What was Emilio in that house? A lover, a friend, a bad genius? Andthe Signora? What was she?

The Marchesino was no believer in the virtue of women. But the lack ofbeauty in Hermione, and her age, rendered him very doubtful as to herrole in the life on the island. Vere's gay simplicity had jumped tothe eyes. But now she, too, was becoming something of a mystery.

He traced it all to Emilio, and was hot with a curiosity that waslinked closely with his passion.

Should he go to see Emilio? He considered the question and resolvednot to do so. He would try to be patient until the night of the dinneron the island. He would be birbante, would play the fox, as Emiliosurely had done. The Panacci temper should find out that one member ofthe family could control it, when such control served his purpose.

He was on fire with a lust for action as he made his resolutions.Vere's coolness to him, even avoidance of him, had struck hammer-likeblows upon his /amour propre/. He saw her now--yes, he saw her--comingdown the stairs behind Peppina. Had they been together? Did they talktogether, the cold, the prudish Signorina Inglese--so he called Verenow in his anger--and the former decoy of Maria Fortunata?

And then a horrible conception of Emilio's role in all this dartedinto his mind, and for a moment he thought of Hermione as a blindinnocent, like his subservient mother, of Vere as a preordainedvictim. Then the blood coursed through his veins like fire, and hefelt as if he could no longer sit still in the boat.

"Avanti! avanti!" he cried to the sailors. "Dio mio! There is enoughbreeze to sail. Run up the sail! Madonna Santissima! We shall not beto Naples till it is night. Avanti! avanti!"

Then he lay back, crossed his arms behind his head, and, with aneffort, closed his eyes.

He was determined to be calm, not to let himself go. He put hisfingers on his pulse.

"That cursed fever! I believe it is coming back," he said to himself.

He wondered how soon the Signora would arrange that dinner on theisland. He did not feel as if he could wait long without seeing Vereagain. But would it ever be possible to see her alone? Emilio saw heralone. His white hairs brought him privileges. He might take her outupon the sea.

The Marchesino still had his fingers on his pulse. Surely it wasfluttering very strangely. Like many young Italians he was a mixtureof fearlessness and weakness, of boldness and childishness.

"I must go to mamma! I must have medicine--the doctor," he thought,anxiously. "There is something wrong with me. Perhaps I have beenlooked on by the evil eye."

And down he went to the bottom of a gulf of depression.

CHAPTER XXII

Hermione was very thankful that the Marchesino had gone. She felt thatthe lunch had been a failure, and was sorry. But she had done herbest. Vere and the young man himself had frustrated her, she thought.It was a bore having to entertain any one in the hot weather. As shewent up-stairs she said to herself that her guest's addio had been thefinal fiasco of an unfortunate morning. Evidently he knew something ofPeppina, and had been shocked to find the girl in the house. Emile hadtold her--Hermione--that she was an impulsive. Had she acted foolishlyin taking Peppina? She had been governed in the matter by her heart,in which dwelt pity and a passion for justice. Surely the sense ofcompassion, the love of fair dealing could not lead one far astray.And yet, since Peppina had been on the island the peace of the lifethere had been lessened. Emile had become a little different, Veretoo. And even Gaspare--was there not some change in him?

She thought of Giulia's assertion that the disfigured girl had theevil eye.

She had laughed at the idea, and had spoken very seriously to Giulia,telling her that she was not to communicate her foolish suspicion tothe other servants. But certainly the joy of their life in this Houseof the Sea was not what it had been. And even Vere had had forebodingswith which Peppina had been connected. Perhaps the air of Italy, thisclear, this radiant atmosphere which seemed created to be theenvironment of happiness, contained some subtle poison that wasworking in them all, turning them from cool reason.

She thought of Emile, calling up before her his big frame his powerfulface with the steady eyes. And a wave of depression went over her, asshe understood how very much she had relied on him since the death ofMaurice. Without him she would indeed have been a derelict.

Again that bitter flood of curiosity welled up in her. She wonderedwhere Vere was, but she did not go to the girl's room. Instead, shewent to her own sitting-room. Yesterday she had been restless. She hadfelt driven. To-day she felt even worse. But to-day she knew whatyesterday she had not known--Vere's solitary occupation. Why had notVere told her, confided in her? It was a very simple matter. The onlyreason why it now assumed an importance to her was because it had beenso carefully concealed. Why had not Vere told her all about it, as shetold her other little matters of their island life, freely, withouteven a thought of hesitation?

She sought the reason of this departure which was paining her. But atfirst she did not find it.

Perhaps Vere wanted to give her a surprise. For a moment her heartgrew lighter. Vere might be preparing something to please or astonishher mother, and Emile might be in the secret, might be assisting insome way. But no! Vere's mysterious occupation had been followed toolong. And then Emile had not always known what it was. He had onlyknown lately.

Those long reveries of Vere upon the sea, when she lay in the littleboat in the shadow cast by the cliffs over the Saint's Pool--they werethe prelude to work; imaginative, creative perhaps.

And Vere was not seventeen.

Hermione smiled to herself rather bitterly, thinking of the ignorance,of the inevitable folly of youth. The child, no doubt, had dreams offame. What clever, what imaginative and energetic child has not suchdreams at some period or other? How absurd we all are, thinking toclimb to the stars almost as soon as we can see them!

And then the smile died away from Hermione's lips as the greattenderness of the mother within her was moved by the thought of thedisappointments that come with a greater knowledge of life. Vere wouldsuffer when she learned the truth, when she knew the meaning offailure.

Quite simply and naturally Hermione was including her child inevitablywithin the circle of her own disaster.

If Emile knew, why did he not tell Vere what he had told her mother?

But Emile had surely shown much greater interest in Vere just latelythan ever before?

Was Emile helping Vere in what she was doing? But if he was, then hemust believe in Vere's capacity to do something that was worth doing.

Hermione knew the almost terrible sincerity of Artois in the things ofthe intellect, his clear, unwavering judgment, his ruthlesstruthfulness. Nothing would ever turn him from that. Nothing, unlesshe--

Her face became suddenly scarlet, then pale. A monstrous idea hadsprung up in her mind; an idea so monstrous that she strove to thrustit away violently, without even contemplating it. Why had Vere nottold her? There must be some good and sufficient reason. Vehemently--to escape from that monstrous idea--she sought it. Why had everythingelse in her child been revealed to her, only this one thing beenhidden from her?

She searched the past, Vere and herself in that past. And now, despiteher emotion, her full intelligence was roused up and at work. Andpresently she remembered that Emile and Vere shared the knowledge ofher own desire to create, and her utter failure to succeed increation. Emile knew the whole naked truth of that. Vere did not. ButVere knew something. Could that mutual knowledge be the reason of thismutual secrecy? As women often do, Hermione had leaped into the verycore of the heart of the truth, had leaped out of the void, guided bysome strange instinct never alive in man. But, as women very seldomdo, she shrank away from the place she had gained. Instead oftriumphing, she was afraid. She remembered how often her imaginationhad betrayed her, how it had created phantoms, had ruined for her thelagging hours. Again and again she had said to herself, "I will bewareof it." Now she accused it of playing her false once more, of runningwild. Sharply she pulled herself up. She was assuming things. That washer great fault, to assume that things were that which perhaps theywere not.

How often Emile had told her not to trust her imagination! She wouldheed him now. She knew nothing. She did not even know for certain thatVere's flush, Vere's abrupt hesitation at lunch, were a betrayal ofthe child's secret.

But that she would find out.

Again the fierce curiosity besieged and took possession of her. Afterall, she was a mother. A mother had rights. Surely she had a right toknow what another knew of her child.

"I will ask Vere," she said to herself.

Once before she had said to herself that she would do that, and shehad not done it. She had felt that to do it would be a humiliation.But now she was resolved to do it, for she knew more of her owncondition and was more afraid of herself. She began to feel like onewho has undergone a prolonged strain of work, who believes that it hasnot been too great and has been capably supported, and who suddenly isaware of a yielding, of a downward and outward movement, like a wideand spreading disintegration, in which brain, nerves, the whole bodyare involved.

Yet what had been the strain that she had been supporting, that nowsuddenly she began to feel too much? The strain of a loss. Time shouldhave eased it. But had Time eased it, or only lengthened the periodduring which she had been forced to carry her load? People ought toget accustomed to things. She knew that it is supposed by many thatthe human body, the human mind, the human heart can get accustomed--bywhich is apparently meant can cease passionately and instinctively tostrive to repel--can get accustomed to anything. Well she could not.Never could she get accustomed to the loss of love, of man's love. Thewhole world might proclaim its proverbs. For her they had no truth.For her--and for how many other silent women!

And now suddenly she felt that for years she had been struggling, andthat the struggle had told upon her far more than she had eversuspected. Nothing must be added to her burden or she would sink down.The dust would cover her. She would be as nothing--or she would be assomething terrible, nameless.

She must ask Vere, do what she had said to herself that she would notdo. Unless she had the complete confidence of her child she could notcontinue to do without the cherishing love she had lost. She sawherself a cripple, something maimed. Hitherto she had been supportedby blessed human crutches: by Vere, Emile, Gaspare. How heavily shehad leaned upon them! She knew that now. How heavily she must stilllean if she were to continue on her way. And a fierce, an almostsavage something, desperate and therefore arbitrary, said within her:

"I will keep the little that I have: I will--I will."

"The little!" Had she said that? It was wicked of her to say that. Butshe had had the wonderful thing. She had held for a brief time themagic of the world within the hollow of her hands, within the shadowof her heart. And the others? Children slip from their parents' livesinto the arms of another whose call means more to them than the voicesof those who made them love. Friends drift away, scarcely knowing why,divided from each other by the innumerable channels that branch fromthe main stream of existence. Even a faithful servant cannot be morethan a friend.

There is one thing that is great, whose greatness makes the smallnessof all the other things. And so Hermione said, "the little that Ihave," and there was truth in it. And there was as vital a truth inthe fact of her whole nature recognizing that little's enormous valueto her. Not for a moment did she underrate her possession. Indeed, shehad to fight against the tendency to exaggeration. Her intellect saidto her that, in being so deeply moved by such a thing as theconcealment from her by Vere of something innocent of which Emileknew, she was making a water drop into an ocean. Her intellect saidthat. But her heart said no.

And the voice of her intellect sank away like the frailest echo thatever raised its spectral imitation of a reality. And the voice of herheart rang out till it filled her world.

And so the argument was over.

She thought she heard a step below, and looked out of the window intothe sunshine.

Gaspare was there. It was his hour of repose, and he was smoking acigarette. He was dressed in white linen, without a coat, and had awhite linen hat on his head. He stood near the house, apparentlylooking out to sea. And his pose was meditative. Hermione watched him.The sight of him reminded her of another question she wished to ask.

Gaspare had one hand in the pocket of his white trousers. With theother he held the cigarette. Hermione saw the wreaths of pale smokecurling up and evaporating in the shining, twinkling air, which seemedfull of joyous, dancing atoms. But presently his hand forgot to do itswork. The cigarette, only half smoked, went out, and he stood there asif plunged in profound thought. Hermione wondered what he was thinkingabout.

"Gaspare!"

She said it softly. Evidently he did not hear.

"Gaspare! Gaspare!"

Each time she spoke a little louder, but still he took no notice.

She leaned farther out and called:

"Gaspare!"

This time he heard and started violently, dropped the cigarette, then,without looking up, bent down slowly, recovered it, and turned round.

"Signora?"

The sun shone full on his upturned face, showing to Hermione thedogged look which sometimes came to it when anything startled him.

"I made you jump."

"No, Signora."

"But I did. What were you thinking about?"

"Nothing, Signora. Why are you not asleep?"

He spoke almost as if she injured him by being awake.

"I couldn't sleep to-day. What are you going to do this afternoon?"

"I don't know, Signora. Do you wish me to do anything for you?"

"Well--"

She had a wish to clear things up, to force her life, the lives ofthose few she cared for, out of mystery into a clear light. She had adesire to chastise thought by strong, bracing action.

"I rather want to send a note to Don Emilio."

"Si, Signora."

His voice did not sound pleased.

"It is too hot to row all the way to Naples. Couldn't you go to thevillage and take the tram to the hotel--if I write the note?"

"If you like, Signora."

"Or would it be less bother to row as far as Mergellina, and take atram or carriage from there?

"I can do that, Signora."

He sounded a little more cheerful.

"I think I'll write the note, Gaspare, then. And you might take itsome time--whenever you like. You might come and fetch it in fiveminutes."

"Very well, Signora."

He moved away and she went to her writing-table. She sat down, andslowly, with a good deal of hesitation and thought, she wrote part ofa letter asking Emile to come to dine whenever he liked at the island.And now came the difficulty. She knew Emile did not want to meet theMarchesino there. Yet she was going to ask them to meet each other.She had told the Marchesino so. Should she tell Emile? Perhaps, if shedid, he would refuse to come. But she could never lay even thesmallest trap for a friend. So she wrote on, asking Emile to let herknow the night he would come as she had promised to invite theMarchesino to meet him.

"Be a good friend and do this for me," she ended, "even if it boresyou. The Marchese lunched here alone with us to-day, and it was afiasco. I think we were very inhospitable, and I want to wipe away therecollection of our dulness from his mind. Gaspare will bring me youranswer."

At the bottom she wrote "Hermione." But just as she was going to sealthe letter in its envelope she took it out, and added, "Delarey" toher Christian name.

"Hermione Delarey." She looked at the words for a long time before sherang the bell for Gaspare.

When she gave him the letter, "Are you going by Mergellina?" she askedhim.

"Si, Signora."

He stood beside her for a moment; then, as she said nothing more,turned to go out.

"Gaspare, wait one minute," she said, quickly.

"Si, Signora."

"I meant to ask you last night, but--well, we spoke of other things,and it was so late. Have you ever noticed anything about that boy,Ruffo, anything at all, that surprised you?"

"Surprised me, Signora?"

"Surprised you, or reminded you of anything?"

"I don't know what you mean, Signora."

Gaspare's voice was hard and cold. He looked steadily at Hermione, asa man of strong character sometimes looks when he wishes to turn hiseyes away from the glance of another, but will not, because of hismanhood.

Hermione hesitated to go on, but something drove her to be moreexplicit.

"Have you never noticed in Ruffo a likeness to--to your Padrone?" shesaid, slowly.

"My Padrone!"

Gaspare's great eyes dropped before hers, and he stood looking on thefloor. She saw a deep flush cover his brown skin.

"I am sure you have noticed it, Gaspare," she said. "I can see youhave. Why did you not tell me?"

At that moment she felt angry with herself and almost angry with him.Had he noticed this strange, this subtle resemblance between thefisher-boy and the dead man at once, long before she had? Had he beenswifter to see such a thing than she?

"What do you mean, Signora? What are you talking about?"

He looked ugly.

"How can a fisher-boy, a nothing from Mergellina, look like myPadrone?"

Now he lifted his eyes, and they were fierce--or so she thought.

"Signora, how can you say such a thing?"

"Gaspare?" she exclaimed, astonished at his sudden vehemence.

"Signora--scusi! But--but there will never be another like myPadrone."

He opened the door and went quickly out of the room, and when the doorshut it was as if an iron door shut upon a furnace.

Hermione stood looking at this door. She drew a long breath.

"But he has seen it!" she said, aloud. "He has seen it."

And Emile?

Had she been a blind woman, she who had so loved the beauty that wasdust? She thought of Vere and Ruffo standing together, so youthful, sohappy in their simple, casual intercourse.

It was as if Vere had been mysteriously drawn to this boy because ofhis resemblance to the father she had never seen.

Vere! Little Vere!

Again the mother's tenderness welled up in Hermione's heart, this timesweeping away the reluctance to be humble.

"I will go to Vere now."

She went to the door, as she had gone to it the previous day. But thistime she did not hesitate to open it. A strong impulse swept heralong, and she came to her child's room eagerly.

"Vere!"

She knocked at the door.

"Vere! May I come in?"

She knocked again. There was no answer.

Then she opened the door and went in. Possibly Vere was sleeping. Themosquito-net was drawn round the bed, but Hermione saw that her childwas not behind it. Vere had gone out somewhere.

The mother went to the big window which looked out upon the sea. Thegreen Venetian blind was drawn. She pushed up one of its flaps andbent to look through. Below, a little way out on the calm water, shesaw Vere's boat rocking softly in obedience to the small movement thatis never absent from the sea. The white awning was stretched above thestern-seats, and under it lay Vere in her white linen dress, her smallhead, not protected by a hat, supported by a cushion. She lay quitestill, one arm on the gunwale of the boat, the other against her side.Hermione could not see whether her eyes were shut or open.

The mother watched her for a long time through the blind.

How much of power was enclosed in that young figure that lay so still,so perfectly at ease, cradled on the great sea, warmed and cherishedby the tempered fires of the sun! How much of power to lift up and tocast down, to be secret, to create sorrow, to be merciful! Wonderful,terrible human power!

The watching mother felt just then that she was in the hands of thechild.

"Now it's the child's turn."

Surely Vere must be asleep. Such absolute stillness must meantemporary withdrawal of consciousness.

Just as Hermione was thinking this, Vere's left hand moved. The girllifted it up to her face, and gently and repeatedly rubbed hereyebrow.

Hermione dropped the flap of the blind. The little, oddly naturalmovement had suddenly made her feel that it was not right to bewatching Vere when the child must suppose herself to be unobserved andquite alone with the sea.

As she came away from the window she glanced quickly round the room,and upon a small writing-table at the foot of the bed she saw a numberof sheets of paper lying loose, with a piece of ribbon beside them.They had evidently been taken out of the writing-table drawer, whichwas partially open, and which, as Hermione could see, contained othersheets of a similar kind. Hermione looked, and then looked away. Shepassed the table and reached the door. When she was there she glancedagain at the sheets of paper. They were covered with writing. Theydrew, they fascinated her eyes, and she stood still, with her handresting on the door-handle. As a rule it would have seemed perfectlynatural to her to read anything that Vere had left lying about, eitherin her own room or anywhere else. Until just lately her child hadnever had, or dreamed of having any secret from her. Never had Verereceived a letter that her mother had not seen. Secrets simply did notexist between them--secrets, that is, of the child from the mother.

But it was not so now. And that was why those sheets of paper drew andheld the mother's eyes.

She had, of course, a perfect right to read them. Or had she--she whohad said to Vere, "Keep your secrets"? In those words had she notdeliberately relinquished such a right? She stood there thinking,recalling those words, debating within herself this question--andsurely with much less than her usual great honesty.

Emile, she was sure, had read the writing upon those sheets of paper.

She did not know exactly why she was certain of this--but she wascertain, absolutely certain. She remembered the long-ago days, whenshe had submitted to him similar sheets. What Emile had read surelyshe might read. Again that intense and bitter curiosity mingled withsomething else, a strange, new jealousy in which it was rooted. Shefelt as if Vere, this child whom she had loved and cared for, had doneher a cruel wrong, had barred her out from the life in which she hadalways been till now the best loved, the most absolutely trusteddweller. Why should she not take that which she ought to have beengiven?

Again she was conscious of that painful, that piteous sensation of onewho is yielding under a strain that has been too prolonged. Somethingsurely collapsed within her, something of the part of her being thatwas moral. She was no longer a free woman in that moment. She wasgoverned. Or so she felt, perhaps deceiving herself.

She went swiftly and softly over to the table and bent over thesheets.

At first she stood. Then she sat down. She took up the paper, handledit, held it close to her eyes.

Verses! Vere was writing verses. Of course! Every one begins by beinga poet. Hermione smiled, almost laughed aloud. Poor little Vere withher poor little secret! There was still that bitterness in the mother,that sense of wrong. But she read on and on. And presently she startedand her hand shook.

She had come to a poem that was corrected in Vere's handwriting, andon the margin was written, "Monsieur Emile's idea."

So there had been a conference, and Emile was advising Vere.

Hermione's hand shook so violently that she could not go on readingfor a moment, and she laid the paper down. She felt like one who hassuddenly unmasked a conspiracy against herself. It was useless for herintellect to deny this conspiracy, for her heart proclaimed it.

Long ago Emile had told her frankly that it was in vain for her towaste her time in creative work, that she had not the necessary giftfor it. And now he was secretly assisting her own child--a child ofsixteen--to do what he had told her, the mother, not to do. Why was hedoing this?

Again the monstrous idea that she had forcibly dismissed from her mindthat day returned to Hermione. There is one thing that sometimesblinds the most clear-sighted men, so that they cannot perceive truth.

But--Hermione again bent over the sheets of paper, this time seekingfor a weapon against the idea which assailed her. On several pages shefound emendations, excisions, on one a whole verse completely changed.And on the margins were pencilled "Monsieur Emile's suggestion";"Monsieur E.'s advice"; and once, "These two lines invented byMonsieur Emile."

When had Vere and Emile had the opportunity for this long and secretdiscussion? On the day of the storm they had been together alone. Theyhad had tea together alone. And on the night Emile dined on the islandthey had been out in the boat together for a long time. All this musthave been talked over then.

Yes.

She read on. Had Vere talent? Did her child possess what she hadlonged for, and had been denied? She strove to read critically, butshe was too excited, too moved to do so. All necessary calm was gone.She was painfully upset. The words moved before her eyes, runningupward in irregular lines that resembled creeping things, and she sawrings of light, yellow in the middle and edged with pale blue.

She pushed away the sheets of paper, got up and went again to thewindow. She must look at Vere once more, look at her with this newknowledge, look at her critically, with a piercing scrutiny. And shebent down as before, and moved a section of the blind, pushing it up.

There was no boat beneath her on the sea.

She dropped the blind sharply, and all the blood in her body seemed tomake a simultaneous movement away from the region of the heart.

Vere was perhaps already in the house, running lightly up to the room.She would come in and find her mother there. She would guess what hermother had been doing.

Hermione did not hesitate. She crossed the room swiftly, opened thedoor, and went out. She reached her own room without meeting Vere. Butshe had not been in it for more than a minute and a half when sheheard Vere come up-stairs, the sound of her door open and shut.

Hermione cleared her throat. She felt the need of doing somethingphysical. Then she pulled up her blinds and let the hot sun stream inupon her.

She felt dark just then--black.

In a moment she found that she was perspiring. The sun was fierce--that, of course, must be the reason. But she would not shut the sunout. She must have light around her, although there was none withinher.

She was thankful she had escaped in time. If she had not, if Vere hadrun into the room and found her there, she was sure she would havefrightened her child by some strange outburst. She would have said ordone something--she did not at all know what--that would perhaps havealtered their relations irrevocably. For, in that moment, the sense ofself-control, of being herself--so she put it--had been withdrawn fromher.

She would regain it, no doubt. She was even now regaining it. Alreadyshe was able to say to herself that she was not seeing things in theirtrue proportions, that some sudden crisis of the nerves, due perhapsto some purely physical cause, had plunged her into a folly of feelingfrom which she would soon escape entirely. She was by nature emotionaland unguarded: therefore specially likely to be the victim in mind ofany bodily ill.

And then she was not accustomed to be unwell. Her strength of body wasremarkable. Very seldom had she felt weak.

She remembered one night, long ago in Sicily, when an awful bodilyweakness had overtaken her. But that had been caused by dread. Themind had reacted upon the body. Now, she was sure of it, body hadreacted on mind.

Yet she had not been ill.

She felt unequal to the battle of pros and cons that was raging withinher.

"I'll be quiet," she thought. "I'll read."

And she took up a book.

She read steadily for an hour, understanding thoroughly all she read,and wondering how she had ever fancied she cared about reading. Thenshe laid the book down and looked at the clock. It was nearly four.Tea would perhaps refresh her. And after tea? She had loved theisland, but to-day she felt almost as if it were a prison. What wasthere to be done? She found herself wondering for the first time howshe had managed to "get through" week after week there. And in amoment her wonder made her realize the inward change in her, thedistance that now divided her from Vere, the gulf that lay betweenthem.

A day with a stranger may seem long, but a month with a friend howshort! To live with Vere had been like living with a part of herself.But now what would it be like? And when Emile came, and they threewere together?

When Hermione contemplated that reunion, she felt that it would be toher intolerable. And yet she desired it. For she wanted to knowsomething, and she was certain that if she, Vere, and Emile could betogether, without any fourth person, she would know it.

A little while ago, when she had longed for bracing action, she hadresolved to ask Emile to meet the Marchesino. She had felt as if thatmeeting would clear the air, would drive out the faint mystery whichseemed to be encompassing them about. The two men, formerly friends,were evidently in antagonism now. She wanted to restore things totheir former footing, or to make the enmity come out into the open, tounderstand it thoroughly, and to know if she and Vere had any part init. Her desire had been to throw open windows and let in light.

But now things were changed. She understood, she knew more. And shewanted to be alone with Emile and with Vere. Then, perhaps, she wouldunderstand everything.

She said this to herself quite calmly. Her mood was changed. The firehad died down in her, and she felt almost sluggish, although stillrestless. The monstrous idea had come to her again. She did notvehemently repel it. By nature she was no doubt an impulsive. But nowshe meant to be a watcher. Before she took up her book and began toread she had been, perhaps, almost hysterical, had been plunged in awelter of emotion in which reason was drowned, had not been herself.

But now she felt that she was herself.

There was something that she wished to know, something that theknowledge she had gained in her child's room that day suggested as apossibility.

She regretted her note to Emile. Why had not she asked him to comealone, to-morrow, or even to-night--yes, to-night?

If she could only be with him and Vere for a few minutes to-night!

CHAPTER XXIII

When Artois received Hermione's letter he asked who had brought it,and obtained from the waiter a fairly accurate description of Gaspare.

"Please ask him to come up," he said. "I want to speak to him."

Two or three minutes later there was a knock at the door and Gasparewalked in, with a large-eyed inquiring look.

Artois gave him a cigar, and sat down to answer the letter, whileGaspare went out on to the balcony and stood looking at the batherswho were diving from the high wooden platform of the bathestablishment over the way. When Artois had finished writing he joinedGaspare. He had a great wish that day to break down a reserve he hadrespected for many years, but he knew Gaspare's determined character,his power of obstinate, of dogged silence. Gaspare's will had beenstrong when he was a boy. The passing of the years had certainly notweakened it. Nevertheless, Artois was moved to make the attempt whichhe foresaw would probably end in failure.

He gave Gaspare the letter, and said:

"Don't go for a moment. I want to have a little talk with you."

"Si, Signore."

Gaspare put the letter into the inner pocket of his jacket, and stoodlooking at Artois, holding the cigar in his left hand. In all theseyears Artois had never found out whether Gaspare liked him or not. Hewished now that he knew.

"Gaspare," he said, "I think you know that I have a great regard foryour Padrona."

"Si, Signore. I know it."

The words sounded rather cold.

"She has had a great deal of sorrow to bear."

"Si, Signore."

"One does not wish that she should be disturbed in any way--that anyfresh trouble should come into her life."

Gaspare's eyes were always fixed steadily upon Artois, who, as hespoke the last words, fancied he saw come into them an expression thatwas almost severely ironical. It vanished at once as Gaspare said:

"No, Signore."

Artois felt the iron of this faithful servant's impenetrable reserve,but he continued very quietly and composedly:

"You have always stood between the Padrona and trouble whenever youcould. You always will--I am sure of that."

"Si, Signore."

"Do you think there is any danger to the Signora's happiness here?"

"Here, Signore?"

Gaspare's emphasis seemed to imply where they were just then standing.Artois was surprised, then for a moment almost relieved. ApparentlyGaspare had no thought in common with the strange, the perhapsfantastic thought that had been in his own mind.

"Here--no!" he said, with a smile. "Only you and I are here, and weshall not make the Signora unhappy."

"Chi lo sa?" returned Gaspare.

And again that ironical expression was in his eyes.

"By here I meant here in Naples, where we all are--or on the island,for instance."

"Signore, in this life there is trouble for all."

"But some troubles, some disasters can be avoided."

"It's possible."

"Gaspare"--Artois looked at him steadily, searchingly even, and spokevery gravely--"I respect you for your discretion of many years. But ifyou know of any trouble, any danger that is near to the Signora, andagainst which I could help you to protect her, I hope you will trustme and tell me. I think you ought to do that."

"I don't know what you mean, Signore."

"Are you quite sure, Gaspare? Are you quite sure that no one comes tothe island who might make the Signora very unhappy?"

Gaspare had dropped his eyes. Now he lifted them, and looked Artoisstraight in the face.

"No, Signore, I am not sure of that," he said.

There was nothing rude in his voice, but there was something stern.Artois felt as if a strong, determined man stood in his path andblocked the way. But why? Surely they were at cross purposes. Theworking of Gaspare's mind was not clear to him.

After a moment of silence, he said:

"What I mean is this. Do you think it would be a good thing if theSignora left the island?"

"Left the island, Signore?"

"Yes, and went away from Naples altogether."

"The Signorina would never let the Padrona go. The Signorina loves theisland and my Padrona loves the Signorina."

"But the Signorina would not be selfish. If it was best for her motherto go--"

"The Signorina would not think it was best; she would never think itwas best to leave the island."

"But what I want to know, Gaspare, is whether you think it would bebest for them to leave the island. That's what I want to know--and youhaven't told me."

"I am a servant, Signore. I cannot tell such things."

"You are a servant--yes. But you are also a friend. And I think nobodycould tell better than you."

"I am sure the Signora will not leave the island till October,Signore. She says we are all to stay until the end of October."

"And now it's July."

"Si, Signore. Now it's July."

In saying the last words Gaspare's voice sounded fatalistic, andArtois believed that he caught an echo of a deep-down thought of hisown. With all his virtues Gaspare had an admixture of the spirit ofthe East that dwells also in Sicily, a spirit that sometimes, broodingover a nature however fine, prevents action, a spirit that says to aman, "This is ordained. This is destiny. This is to be."

"Gaspare," Artois said, strong in this conviction, "I have heard yousay, 'e il destino.' But you know we can often get away from things ifwe are quick-witted."

"Some things, Signore."

"Most things, perhaps. Don't you trust me?"

"Signore!"

"Don't you think, after all these years, you can trust me?"

"Signore, I respect you as I respect my father."

"Well, Gaspare, remember this. The Signora has had trouble enough inher life. We must keep out any more."

"Signore, I shall always do what I can to spare my Padrona. Thank youfor the cigar, Signore. I ought to go now. I have to go to Mergellinafor the boat."

"To Mergellina?"

Again Artois looked at him searchingly.

"Si, Signore; I left the boat at Mergellina. It is very hot to row allthe way here."

"Yes. A rivederci, Gaspare. Perhaps I shall sail round to the islandto-night after dinner. But I'm not sure. So you need not say I amcoming."

"A rivederci, Signore."

When Gaspare had gone, Artois said to himself, "He does not trust me."

Artois was surprised to realize how hurt he felt at Gaspare's attitudetowards him that day. Till now their mutual reserve had surely linkedthem together. Then silence had been a bond. But there was a change,and the bond seemed suddenly loosened.

"Damn the difference between the nations!" Artois thought. "How can wegrasp the different points of view? How can even the cleverest of usread clearly in others of a different race from our own?"

He felt frustrated, as he had sometimes felt frustrated by Orientals.And he knew an anger of the brain as well as an anger of the heart.But this anger roused him, and he resolved to do something from whichtill now he had instinctively shrunk, strong-willed man though he was.If Gaspare would not help him he would act for himself. Possibly thesuspicion, the fear that beset him was groundless. He had put it awayfrom him more than once, had said that it was absurd, that hisprofession of an imaginative writer rendered him, perhaps, more liableto strange fancies than were other men, that it encouraged him to seekinstinctively for drama, and that what a man instinctively andperpetually seeks he will often imagine that he has found. Now hewould try to prove what was the truth.

He had written to Hermione saying that he would be glad to dine withher on any evening that suited the Marchesino, that he had noengagements. Why she wished him to meet the Marchesino he did notknow. No doubt she had some woman's reason. The one she gave washardly enough, and he divined another beneath it. Certainly he did notlove Doro on the island, but perhaps it was as well that they shouldmeet there once, and get over their little antagonism, an antagonismthat Artois thought of as almost childish. Life was not long enoughfor quarrels with boys like Doro. Artois had refused Hermione'sinvitation on the sea abruptly. He had felt irritated for the moment,because he had for the moment been unusually expansive, and herannouncement that Doro was to be there had fallen upon him like a colddouche. And then he had been nervous, highly strung from overwork. Nowhe was calm, and could look at things as they were. And if he noticedanything leading him to suppose that the Marchesino was likely to tryto abuse Hermione's hospitality he meant to have it out with him. Hewould speak plainly and explain the English point of view. Doro wouldno doubt attack him on the ground of his interview with MariaFortunata. He did not care. Somehow his present preoccupation withHermione's fate, increased by the visit of Gaspare, rendered hisirritation against the Marchesino less keen than it had been. But hethought he would probably visit the island to-night--after anothervisit which he intended to pay. He could not start at once. He mustgive Gaspare time to take the boat and row off. For his first visitwas to Mergellina.

After waiting an hour he started on foot, keeping along by the sea, ashe did not wish to meet acquaintances, and was likely to meet them inthe Villa. As he drew near to Mergellina he felt a great and growingreluctance to do what he had come to do, to make inquiries into acertain matter; and he believed that this reluctance, awake within himalthough perhaps he had scarcely been aware of it, had kept himinactive during many days. Yet he was not sure of this. He was notsure when a faint suspicion had first been born in his mind. Even nowhe said to himself that what he meant to do, if explained to theordinary man, would probably seem to him ridiculous, that the ordinaryman would say, "What a wild idea! Your imagination runs riot." But hethought of certain subtle things which had seemed like indications,like shadowy pointing fingers; of a look in Gaspare's eyes when theyhad met his--a hard, defiant look that seemed shutting him out fromsomething; of a look in another face one night under the moon; of somewords spoken in a cave with a passion that had reached his heart; oftwo children strangely at ease in each other's society. And again thethought pricked him, "Is not everything possible--even that?" Allthrough his life he had sought truth with persistence, sometimesalmost with cruelty, yet now he was conscious of timidity, almost ofcowardice--as if he feared to seek it.

Long ago he had known a cowardice akin to this, in Sicily. Then he hadbeen afraid, not for himself but for another. To-day again theprotective instinct was alive in him. It was that instinct which madehim afraid, but it was also that instinct which kept him to his firstintention, which pushed him on to Mergellina. No safety can be inignorance for a strong man. He must know. Then he can act.

When Artois reached Mergellina he looked about for Ruffo, but he couldnot see the boy. He had never inquired Ruffo's second name. He mightmake a guess at it. Should he? He looked at a group of fishermen whowere talking loudly on the sand just beyond the low wall. One of themhad a handsome face bronzed by the sun, frank hazel eyes, a mouthoddly sensitive for one of his class. His woolen shirt, wide open,showed a medal resting on his broad chest, one of those amulets thatare said to protect the fishermen from the dangers of the sea. Artoisresolved to ask this man the question he wished, yet feared to put tosome one. Afterwards he wondered why he had picked out this man.Perhaps it was because he looked happy.

Artois caught the man's eye.

"You want a boat, Signore?"

With a quick movement the fellow was beside him on the other side ofthe wall.

"I'll take your boat--perhaps this evening."

"At what hour, Signore?"

"We'll see. But first perhaps you can tell me something."

"What is it?"

"You live here at Mergellina?"

"Si, Signore."

"Do you know any one called--called Buonavista?"

The eyes of Artois were fixed on the man's face.

"Buonavista--si, Signore."

"You do?"

"Ma si, Signore," said the man, looking at Artois with a sudden flashof surprise. "The family Buonavista, I have known it all my life."

"The family? Oh, then there are many of them?"

The man laughed.

"Enrico Buonavista has made many children, and is proud of it, I cantell you. He has ten--his father before him--"

"Then they are Neapolitans?"

"Neapolitans! No, Signore. They are from Mergellina."

Artois smiled. The tension which had surprised the sailor left hisface.

"I understand. But there is no Sicilian here called Buonavista?"

"A Sicilian, Signore? I never heard of one. Are there Buonavistas inSicily?"

"I have met with the name there once. But perhaps you can tell me of aboy, one of the fishermen, called Ruffo?"

The man went back to his companions, and, as Artois walked on begantalking eagerly to them, and pointing after the stranger.

Artois did not know what he would do later on in the evening, but hehad decided on the immediate future. He would walk up the hill to thevillage of Posilipo, then turn down to the left, past the entrance tothe Villa Rosebery, and go to the Antico Giuseppone, where he coulddine by the waterside. It was quiet there, he knew; and he could havea cutlet and a zampaglione, a cup of coffee and a cigar, and sit andwatch the night fall. And when it had fallen? Well, he would not befar from the island, nor very far from Naples, and he could decidethen what to do.

He followed out this plan, and arrived at the Giuseppone at evening. Ashe came down the road between the big buildings near the waterside hesaw in the distance a small group of boys and men lounging by the threeor four boats that lie at the quay, and feared to find, perhaps, abustle and noise of people round the corner at the ristorante. But whenhe turned the corner and came to the little tables that were set out inthe open air, he was glad to see only two men who were bending overtheir plates of fish soup. He glanced at them, almost without noticingthem, so preoccupied was he with his thoughts, sat down at an adjoiningtable and ordered his simple meal. While it was being got ready helooked out over the sea.

The two men near him conversed occasionally in low voices. He paid noheed to them. Only when he had dined slowly and was sipping his blackcoffee did they attract his attention. He heard one of them say to theother in French:

"What am I to do? It would be terrible for me! How am I to prevent itfrom happening?"

His companion replied:

"I thought you had been wandering all the winter in the desert."

"I have. What has that to do with it?"

"Have you learned its lesson?"

"What lesson?"

"The lesson of resignation, of obedience to the thing that must be."

Artois looked towards the last speaker and saw that he was anOriental, and that he was very old. His companion was a youngFrenchman.

"What do those do who have not learned?" continued the Oriental. "Theyseek, do they not? They rebel, they fight, they try to avoid things,they try to bring things about. They lift up their hands to dispersethe grains of the sand-storm. They lift up their voices to be heard bythe wind from the South. They stretch forth their hands to gather themirage into their bosom. They follow the drum that is beaten among thedunes. They are afraid of life because they know it has two kinds ofgifts, and one they snatch at, and one they would refuse. And they areafraid still more of the door that all must enter, Sultan and Nomad--he who has washed himself and made the threefold pilgrimage, and hewho is a leper and is eaten by flies. So it is. And nevertheless allthat is to come must come, and all that is to go must go at the timeappointed; just as the cloud falls and lifts at the time appointed,and the wind blows and fails, and Ramadan is here and is over."

As he ceased from speaking he got up from his chair, and, followed bythe young Frenchman, he passed in front of Artois, went down to thewaterside, stepped into a boat, and was rowed away into the gatheringshadows of night.

Artois sat very still for a time. Then he, too, got into a boat andwas rowed away across the calm water to the island.

He found Hermione sitting alone, without a lamp, on the terrace,meditating, perhaps, beneath the stars. When she saw him she got upquickly, and a strained look of excitement came into her face.

"You have come!"

"Yes. You--are you surprised? Did you wish to be alone?"

"No. Will you have some coffee?"

He shook his head.

"I dined at the Giuseppone. I had it there."

He glanced round.

"Are you looking for Vere? She is out on the cliff, I suppose. Shallwe go to her?"

He was struck by her nervous uneasiness. And he thought of the wordsof the old Oriental, which had made upon him a profound impression,perhaps because they had seemed spoken, not to the young Frenchman,but in answer to unuttered thoughts of his own.

"Let us sit here for a minute," he said.

Hermione sat down again in silence. They talked for a little whileabout trifling things. And then Artois was moved to tell her of theconversation he had that evening overheard, to repeat to her, almostword for word, what the old Oriental had said. When he had finishedHermione was silent for a minute. Then she moved her chair and said,in an unsteady voice:

"I don't think I should ever learn the lesson of the desert. Perhapsonly those who belong to it can learn from it."

"If it is so it is sad--for the others."

"Let us go and find Vere," she said.

"Are you sure she is on the cliff?" he asked, as they passed out bythe front door.

Vere's voice was speaking. Then a boy's voice rang out in the song ofMergellina. The obedient voice was soft and very young, though manly.And it sounded as if it sang only for one person, who was very near.Yet it was impersonal. It asked nothing from, it told nothing to, thatperson. Simply, and very naturally, it just gave to the night a verysimple and a very natural song.

As Artois listened he felt as if he learned what he had not been ableto learn that day at Mergellina. Strange as this thing was--if indeedit was--he felt that it must be, that it was ordained to be, it andall that might follow from it. He even felt almost that Hermione mustalready know it, have divined it, as if, therefore, any effort to hideit from her must be fruitless, or even contemptible, as if indeed alleffort to conceal truth of whatever kind was contemptible.

The words of the Oriental had sunk deep into his soul.

When the song was over he turned resolutely away. He felt that thosechildren should not be disturbed. Hermione hesitated for a moment.Then she fell in with his caprice. At the house door he bade her good-bye. She scarcely answered. And he left her standing there alone inthe still night.

CHAPTER XXIV

Her unrest was greater than ever, and the desire that consumed herremained ungratified, although Emile had come to the island as if inobedience to her fierce mental summons. But she had not seen him even